Cold
by windsilk
Summary: I think, in a way, I was always looking for them. Trying to figure out who that little girl was, and how we could possibly be the same person.


**COLD**

—

—

Running away was different than I'd expected.

It was easy. The car keys were already in my hand, the clothes in my school backpack. The cash from my adoptive mother's drawer, the credit card from her wallet were collected all before she woke up.

I kissed her on her cheek before I ducked out the door, trust burning in the back pocket of my jeans. She waved at me drowsily from bed, red hair fanned out around her, glasses just like mine resting on the side table. The tissues wadded up around her ensured she would stay put for more time than I needed.

In truth, it probably wasn't fair that I hadn't told her. But…there are some things that you just have to do on your own.

—

Karin chose me when I was 3.

She let me keep my given name. S-A-R-A-D-A. Sarada.

I took it with me when I shut the back door behind me that cold January day. The air was ice as it whipped against my face, and the metal of the key was quick to lose heat even in my palms. I put my hands in my coat pockets, hands curling into balls in the silky lining, and walked quickly to my rundown red car.

"Like your mother," Karin had mumbled when I'd picked it out of the used car lot a year back.

She'd never elaborated on that.

—

These are the docks that I remember: briny wood, the hollow thump as you walked the length, the gray, turbulent ocean. Two sets of laughter beside my own.

Only I am here alone. But if I squint my eyes just enough that the world becomes a haze, splotches of color against the endless static of the waves, I can just make out their figures. A gloved hand holding mine on the left, a bare one, cold ring pressed to my palm on my right.

Wisps of pink hair, laughter, a turned face to his. This man—my father, I correct myself, looking down at me. His eyes are fond.

I am small.

Them counting off: 3, 2, 1.

Swinging, swinging.

Flight.

—

I book an inn on the west side of town. It is cheap and rundown, and although I want to pay in cash, I can't. I've forgotten the ATM card. Instead, I hand over Karin's credit card and hope that I can scour the town before she takes notice and begins to worry.

The rickety white door squeaks when I open it, but it serves its purpose well, and as soon as I slam it shut, I drop my things and slide down against it, the back of my head bumping against the wood.

This city reeks of a life I'd lost. The birds, native to this place, chirp in a way that I can still hear in my dreams but rarely my reality. The pop of fireworks go off in my dreams, same as they always have, and I wonder about the past.

—

The phone rings. _Karin_ , it lights up, buzzing. She has found out sooner than I expected, and I know I can't use the credit card again.

The radio I'd been keeping on to stave away the hovering loneliness betrays me once and for all. _Leaf County Sheriff's Office is looking for Sarada Uzumaki. Female, age 16 years. Height five foot seven, weight 130 pounds. Sarada has black eyes and straight black hair. Last seen this morning at her home in Sound. Please report any sightings to the Sheriff's Office as the child is thought to be in danger._

I shut off the radio, crack open the back of my phone, and remove the battery.

The room is quiet.

I am finally alone.

—

I visit the archives a few hours later. It isn't particularly difficult to hide birth records in a town, but life isn't a spy movie, and no one has any reason to do that. The lady at the counter is cranky but advises me to be out of there by 5pm.

She unlocks the door, and it opens to a room filled with files and documents and papers of old, of a time before 5 gig flash drives and cloud computing. The lighting in the room is an orangey yellow, and it makes my eyes droop.

I scan the rows and rows of binders before I finally find one labeled birth records. I flip to my year. I find my name, a name I had lost for so long.

I exist. I exist. _I exist._

—

In my pocket, there is a Polaroid of a time when I was little more whole and a little less lost. It is of my birth mother—her long, soft pink hair winding around her shoulders, her gentle smile pressed to my temple.

I am small and chubby and loved.

She is wearing scrubs, and around the edges of the photo, half a finger sticks out. It is, I can only assume, his.

I thumb the edges of the photo, trace the lettering, the unfamiliar penmanship that marks my past.

 _Our little bud. January 1996._

—

The archives have newspapers in large bundles, one issue for every day of every year. There's scanned versions as well, on the microfilm reader to the side, but there's something about the consistency of paper between my fingers that I have always loved.

I want to touch it. I want to feel the ink, even if the oils on my fingers do destroy this small history.

I want to be able to know my past intimately.

Finding the year and the month and the day is easy, and finding the announcements section is still easier. It takes a scant few minutes to skim through all the tiny print jammed onto this yellowing paper, and finally, my fingers settle. _It's a girl! Sarada Uchiha joins the family._

And there, a picture of a squirming, red bundle, face puckered. And there, just below, a caption: _Sasuke and Sakura Uchiha welcome their daughter to the world._

—

I am an Uchiha.

These words mean nothing, and yet they mean everything.

The Polaroid is heavier in my pocket than ever, and without too much guilt, I tear away the section of the newspaper that I need, folding up this birth announcement and letting it nestle alongside another fragment of my past.

My heartbeat thrums in my chest. This is hope.

—

This town still has phone books.

They are in the small phone booth at the corner of a dingy street. I accidentally step on some gum on the way there, and I spend a good few minutes scraping my foot against the curb.

I look out of place here.

People can always tell when someone's not from the same area. I spend too much time goggling at crusty buildings that have no meaning, trying to discern if I can recall even just a little.

I think about Googling for my name instead of going through all this trouble, but my laptop is at the inn, I've dismantled my own phone, and the phone booth is ten paces in front of me. The decision is easy. The door squeaks when I open it, and when it shuts behind me, the whistle of the wind that has followed me around is silenced.

The flip through the pages is quiet. This phone book is old, I can tell, from the well-worn pages. I find the U section with ease, and it is automatic for me to search for Uzumaki before I remember—that's not my name. Not my real one.

 _Uchiha S_ sits right next to a phone number, and beside that, an address. I don't think twice before ripping the page out of the book all together.

It's time.

—

When I walk up to the door of the house, the path beaten and the hedges carefully trimmed, I wonder what I'll say. I wonder if they'll recognize me.

Snow is crusted on the roof's edge, and the wind is blistering. I bury my nose into my scarf.

If I pretend, I can smell the paint on the floor of the kitchen in it. Broad brush strokes on a huge sheet of paper, paint slick against my hands, the murky water in a large bowl. My mother, eyes warm, suggesting additions to my masterpiece.

I am an artist.

When my father gets home, he nods in approval, and he helps me autograph it with my handprint. His fingers are rough, and he smells vaguely of copper. He and my mother share a look over my head, and then he presses a kiss to my temple.

His own hand, slick with red paint, presses into the paper next to mine.

This is home.

—

The door swings inward, and a woman's head pokes out.

"Hi?"

She is not the right person. I know this immediately. Her hair is blonde, eyes hazel. Her voice is commanding. This is not Sakura.

Still—

"Hi. Um. I'm looking for Sakura Uchiha?"

Her inquisitive look quickly turns sour. "Good god," she mutters under her breath, but we are a mere two feet away from each other, and I can hear her. "She doesn't live here anymore."

I blink. "Or maybe…a Sasuke Uchiha?"

She shakes her head, and presses her lips together.

"Do you know…where I might find them?" She crosses her arms, gaze flinty, and doesn't respond. I press forward, even as she looks like she's about to turn around and close the door. "But you recognize their names? You know who they are?"

She gives me one last stare, and then closes the door.

—

There is one other name on this page, and the paper, although thin, is hot with importance in my hand. _Uchiha F._

I crack open the GPS, input the address, and I drive.

—

The house is a short distance from the first. I pass by a Walmart on the way there, and a memory comes to me in a burst.

I am walking behind them. Toddling, really. I got distracted by something, slipped behind, and when I look forward again, they are holding hands. It is a tentative thing—delicate and small and soft, like the flutter of a butterfly's wing.

Their knuckles brush, my mother turns towards my father with a small smile. He weaves their fingers together, lifts her hand to his mouth, and kisses her knuckles. "Darling," he whispers against the back of her palm.

Her cheeks are rosy. They look like mine when I blush.

She clears her throat, their hands drop but stay intertwined, and she turns her head back. Her hair is shorter, I notice. This is from before the rest. "Sa-chan," she calls. "Sa-chan!"

—

The door does not open when I knock this time. The yellow paint of the one story home is peeling a bit, but like the last, the yard is maintained. The snow has been shoveled off the sidewalk.

This home is lived in.

I try the handle, and it does not budge. There are a variety of flowerpots on the porch, and I lift them up. Four flowerpots in, I find a key.

It slides into the lock with ease, and I turn it, the pins pushing into place. The door opens, and the alarm goes off. I freeze, the key in my hand on fire, and I drop it in panic.

I've come too far to stop now. I've come too far.

I step into the house, ignore the high-pitched alarm, and close the door behind me. I have to move fast. I scan the living room, pick up a few photo frames, and see faces that look almost right. An older man and a woman, with two boys.

Another—the older of the two boys. Another—my pink haired mother and my father. A pile of unread mail.

I see a staircase leading down. I don't hesitate.

—

The basement is dark if not for the flashlight I found at the top of the stairs. There a lot of miscellaneous things. Cans of food, old sleeping bags, boxes upon boxes. A beige filing cabinet with one drawer taped shut with duct tape.

My hands are peeling the silver tape of before I have consciously decided to open it. The metal screeches as I pull the drawer open, the wheels rusty from age.

I put the flashlight in my lap, and I reach in to find newspapers. I unfold them so I can see the headline.

—

The front door slams shut above my head. Someone has come. Probably the police.

I don't have time. I don't have time. I don't have time.

—

My hands are shaking.

 _DEATHS SHOCK TOWN._

 _POLICE KILL MURDERER, WIFE._

And there, just below, the pink haired smiling woman of my dreams. I hear the echoes of fireworks in my mind, the ones that have been part of my dreams since childhood, and in that moment, I understand. I skim the article, hand clapped over my mouth, and I know.

Those aren't fireworks in my dreams. They're gunshots.

—

I crawl out of the house through the window at the top of the basement. It is just small enough for me to shove my body through, and I scramble out of it and down the street.

Red and blue lights flicker from the front of the house, and I am thankful I parked my car far away. The front lawn is empty, and so is the cop car.

I sprint towards my red car— _like your mother_ —and I get in and drive.

—

My hands are shaking.

My hands are shaking, and my lips are trembling, and my eyes are bloodshot, and I'm hunched over the steering wheel sobbing, screaming, as I drive at 50 miles an hour down a 30 mile an hour road. The windshield is already frosty, and my eyes are glassy, and I am pulling over before I can process the action.

The car hurtles to a stop, and I open the door fast enough for me to retch, but nothing comes out. I dry heave, and tears slide own my nose, hitting the pavement soundlessly.

The wind howls around me.

I close the door again when it becomes clear I have nothing in my system to throw up. I unbuckle my seat belt, hit the steering wheels a few times with all the anger and frustration and loss I can expend, and then I curl up there, the gear shift pressing into my ribs, and I cry.

It is the longest night I will ever know.

—

There is a tapping on my window, and I am jolted awake. I have cried through my sleep, if the wetness on the seat is any indication, and my face feels taut, stale. I wipe away the tears, sniff a few times, and then sit up slowly.

When I do, I can see the red and blue lights dappled on my fisted hands, and I pull my coat closer around me. I turn to the window where an officer is motioning for me to roll the window down.

I do.

"Are you all right, miss?" his voice is soft, friendly. His eyes are black and hooded. His hair is gray and sticking up at an odd angle.

"I'm—I'm fine." I stumble over the words, my voice hoarse from sleep.

"Sarada, right? The runaway?" I look down at my lap. "I'm going to need you to get out of the car."

—

I am leaning against the door when he puts the story together. "So what's a girl like you doing lurking around Tsunade Senju and Mikoto Uchiha's places?"

I don't say anything.

"School reporter, maybe?"

I wrap my arms around myself, and then after a few moments, he sighs, walking around. "Well, I'm going to have to take you home. Your mom is worried sick."

"Do you know?" The words are out of my mouth before I can clamp them down. A few pieces of an article and a headline are not enough. I need to know.

He pauses. "Know what?"

"What happened to them?" The names are hard to get out, but I do. "Sakura and Sasuke Uchiha?"

"I…yeah," he sighs, running his fingers through his hair. "Hard not to know. I was there."

—

I think, in a way, I was always looking for them. Trying to figure out who that little girl was, and how we could possibly be the same person.

—

He squints. "You sure you wanna know? It's not…" he trails off, but when I say nothing, he shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels, relenting. "They were a happy couple. In love. But I guess some things aren't meant to be.

"Sasuke's brother, Itachi, killed their father, Fugaku, and things unraveled from there. We caught Itachi, but he escaped. Sasuke found him before we could and…" He makes the hand gesture for a gun coupled with a hushed shooting noise.

"We found the body hours later. It didn't take long to piece it together. We…we went to the house. Sakura was a doctor. Well-liked, cheery. She and Sasuke were in the kitchen together. They had a kid. Her name was…" he stops, and his eyes widen.

"Go on," I insist, shaking my head, fighting the burn of the tears.

"Right. The kid," he looks at me unsurely, "was asleep at the time. There was a painting on the vinyl floor of the kitchen when we came in. We made to arrest Sasuke, but some rowdy younger officer pulled the trigger. Sakura jumped in the way. Sasuke was right behind her. And…that was that."

—

I think, in a way, I will always be searching for them. Trying to figure out who that little girl was (and who they were, and who we were together) and how she and I could possibly be the same person.

Collecting every tiny clue and…waiting. For the dots to connect.

It is a month later when I revisit the docks. I still feel their hands in mine. I still hear the gunshots in my dreams, the sticky paint on my hands. I still see the blood on my father's. The Polaroid is creased now, from the curvature of my pocket, but I touch it and it takes me back.

I don't go find their graves. I do not need to.

I let the sound of seawater, so similar to my own pulse, take me.

They are here.

My eyes slide shut.

—

—

* * *

 **notes** : heavily inspired by a short film called, you guessed it, cold. it is gorgeous and atmospheric and it makes me think a lot about a lot of things, but mostly about identity. find it on youtube! it's by emily diana ruth. highly recommend to watch. hope everyone's having a good winter holiday!


End file.
